Chapter XXXV: Aug. 5

HERE we are at home again, safe and sound, having made the journey in less than three days. The poor babe is alive, and that is all. My Lady is like a ghost so pale, wasted and woe-begone; but keeps up for the sake of her husband and child. I see my mother has great fears for her.

_Aug. 12._

My mother being so much at the great house, Joyce naturally falls to me. She has been put to sleep in the little green room which opens into mine, and sits with me every morning doing her task in the hornbook and in sewing and spinning. She takes to the use of her fingers readily enough, but is sadly dull at her book. Master Ellenwood, whom I consulted, advised me to give her pen and ink and let her imitate the letters, and I think we shall get on better. She is so good and tries so hard, that I cannot for very shame get out of patience with her. In the afternoon we take long walks and rides with Master Ellenwood or Harry for escort, or go to see the sick folk in the village.

The babe still lingers, but we have no hope of his life. My Lord is like one distracted, but more I think for the mother than the child. He depends for everything on Richard, and can hardly bear to have him out of sight; so we see little of Dick. He will be the next heir if this poor boy dies, unless there are others. The prior said as much to him the other day, adding "that 'twas an ill wind," etc., (a fine speech for a Churchman). My father said Richard's brow grew black, but he answered courteously:

"If my prayers could keep the child alive, my reverend Father, he would live to be as old as Abraham."

Whereat my father said the prior had the grace to look ashamed. Poor old man, he himself cares for naught but money, and I suppose he can't understand how any one can be really disinterested.

I must not forget to say that the Spanish kitling made the journey in the pocket of Harry's horseman's coat, sorely discomposed at times by the shaking, and wailing pitifully, but on the whole behaving very well.

We stopped for one night we were on the road at the same yeoman's house as before, and had the same hearty welcome. We heard that they found the old gaffer dead in his bed the next day but one after our visit. The dame said the words he had repeated to us were constantly on his lips the last day of his life, and when she put him to bed, he asked her "when that young lady would come again?" and left his blessing for me. And after she left him, she heard him murmuring over and over—"everlasting life—everlasting life." Truly a happy end.